


These Are The Days

by sunsetmog



Series: Soup [2]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Schmoop, Sickfic, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the schmoop_bingo prompt, "illness – shared". Sequel to Take The Long Way.</p><p>Spencer sneezed, twice. "Fuck" he said, blearily, reaching for the mostly-empty box of tissues and blowing his nose loudly. "This is all your fault, Brendon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are The Days

**Author's Note:**

> beta by reni-days.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/53362.html) on 22nd July 2010.

Brendon woke up to the sound of the front door opening. and Spencer letting himself in. Penny Lane and Bogart scrambled up and off the living room rug and out into the hallway, barking madly and probably jumping up at Spencer, judging by the noise. Brendon opened one bleary eye and pulled the blanket down from over his head, where he'd been keeping it in a vague attempt at blocking out the sun from where it was streaming in through the gap in the curtains. "What time is it?" he asked, croakily.

"Almost lunchtime," Spencer said, from out in the hallway, and he didn't sound his best, either.

Brendon tried to swallow, but his throat felt raw. He reached for the Tylenol and downed two of them with a gulp of too-warm water before fumbling on the floor for the cough drops. He was a _rock star_ , the only thing he was supposed to be downing was vodka, preferably backstage, and preferably in a jacuzzi. He knew he should never have believed _Behind the Music_ , TV was always lying to him. "I should be in a jacuzzi," he grumbled, pulling the blanket back over his head.

"What?" Spencer asked, coming into Brendon's living room and dropping two well-thumbed magazines down onto Brendon's legs and narrowly avoiding bumping into Brendon's feet, hanging over the edge of the couch. When Brendon peered out from under the blanket, Spencer was tiredly depositing two dogs back down on to the rug. "Don't say I never buy you anything," Spencer said, once he was done disentangling himself from the dogs.

Bogart and Penny Lane were probably the best dogs that anyone could ever have, Brendon thought, modestly, but they weren't that good at leaving you alone. Penny Lane – unhappy at the idea that Spencer had finished petting her – clambered up on to the couch and curled up with Brendon instead, licking his face.

"You will get sick and _die_ ," Brendon told her, but Penny Lane was brave, and in the face of danger, thought licking was a pretty good way forward. Brendon kind of liked that about her. He watched over Penny Lane's head as Spencer tiredly swept a pile of old magazines and tissues and empty DVD cases down on to the floor before sinking down into the armchair.

"I thought you were coming over to make me breakfast," Brendon said, reaching for Spencer's magazines and trying not to sound pathetic. He'd been reduced to stumbling into the kitchen wrapped in his blanket, and trying not to fall over as he tipped food into the dog bowls and drank orange juice straight from the carton.

"Slept in," Spencer said, and when Brendon took a closer look, Spencer looked exhausted. He curled up in the armchair and leaned his head on the arm. It didn't look comfortable at all, and Brendon was fairly sure Spencer's limbs didn't normally bend that way. _And_ his skin was pale – too pale, Brendon thought, with all the doctoring skills and medical knowledge that came from a few days on the couch with a really crappy bout of the flu.

"You're sick," Brendon pronounced, taking the magazines Spencer had brought him. "You've got what I've got. You're going to die too."

"Am not," Spencer said. "Shut up, I'm just tired. I brought you magazines. Shut up and look at those."

"You're _sick_ ," Brendon said, gleefully, because it was always good when someone else could be sick with you. He coughed, and remembered how miserable he was. "Don't deny it."

Spencer sneezed, twice. "Fuck" he said, blearily, reaching for the mostly-empty box of tissues and blowing his nose loudly. "This is all your fault, Brendon."

"It is not my fault I'm sick," Brendon said, as primly as he could manage. He still felt really shitty, and his head ached and his nose was red like Rudolph's. He took a look at the magazines. He blinked as he saw the second magazine, which wasn't about music at all. " _Redbook_? Is this your Grandma's?"

"Shut up," Spencer said, pulling Brendon's one and only cushion over his face. It had been a gift from Shane, who secretly liked throw cushions, even though Brendon wasn't exactly sure what they were _for_. He normally sat down and moved them out of the way. "I bought it for the crossword, shut up."

"I always wanted to know the grown up way to wear braids," Brendon said, flicking the magazine open. It fell open to an article about how to make a great lasagna. He narrowed his eyes toward Spencer. "You've read these. You have brought me _used_ magazines. Gross."

"You're gross," Spencer said, grumpily. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and Brendon felt something twist in his stomach that had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with being ill.

" _Used magazines_ ," Brendon complained, for want of something to say.

"Yes," Spencer said, patiently, from underneath the cushion, "because I am not actually your personal slave, no matter how much you wish that I was."

Brendon wished no such thing. Mostly.

Spencer coughed, miserably, and threw the cushion across the room. It landed on Brendon's knees, and bounced noiselessly to the floor. Bogart peered at it and nudged it with his paw. It didn't fight back, so Bogart sat on it, which was pretty much his approach to life in general. "Now I'm sick and it's all your fault."

Brendon shifted pathetically, sitting up and making space on the couch. "Come sit over here," he said, as nicely as he could manage. He pulled back his blanket, and gave Spencer his best smile.

Spencer made a face. "That blanket will make me sicker," he pronounced. "This whole room will make me sicker. I bet all the germs are just having a little germy party. It'll be like spring break. Little topless germs, all dancing to shitty music."

Brendon looked bemused. His blanket might be kind of rank, and okay, so Brendon hadn't made it into the shower for a couple – three – days, but he had the _plague_. It was okay not to shower when you were as sick as Brendon was. "Have you gone crazy?" he asked, slowly. "Insane? How many fingers am I holding up?" He held up his hand.

Spencer coughed again, and looked sadder than Brendon had seen him in a long time. "Five," he said. "Or four and a thumb, whatever." He coughed again, and he sounded raw and tired.

"You sound tired," he said, and it wasn't exactly like he _meant_ it to come out like an accusation, but it sort of did.

Spencer groaned. "Can I nap here?" he asked.

Brendon narrowed his eyes. "How sick are you?" he asked.

"I think I have consumption," Spencer told him. "Like Nicole Whatshername in Moulin Thingy."

"Are you coughing up blood?" Brendon asked, unwrapping himself from his blanket so that Spencer could have it if he needed it. Spencer might be closer to death than Brendon was, especially if he had consumption. Brendon's plague was a slow and painful death.

"No," Spencer said, closing his eyes and trying to curl up into a ball in Brendon's armchair. It would be quite adorable if it wasn't just sick and germy. "And no, you can't see my snot. Go look at your own."

"I never asked to," Brendon said, in as injured a tone as he could manage, when his throat hurt and his head ached and he wanted to sleep forever. "Mine's all thick and weird," he added, miserably. He'd called his mom to tell her that, too, and she'd made a noise down the phone and passed his dad over for some words of hearty encouragement. Brendon had made some miserable noises and asked his dad if his mom could ship him some macaroni and cheese and maybe a hug. "And Mom said that she'd try and send a hug in the mail, but it probably won't be as good as the real thing. I want my mom," he added, in his saddest voice.

Spencer shivered. "Hate being sick," he said, as if he hadn't heard Brendon. Brendon wanted a hug, and he wasn't above begging for one. Spencer should pay more attention.

"You can stay in my bed," Brendon said, after a minute when Spencer looked like he was going to fall asleep all curled up and cramped in Brendon's armchair. "So long as I can nap too."

Spencer made a face, and Brendon rolled his eyes. "We're sick," he said. "I'm so sick I'm going to _die_ , slowly and painfully, and you're all gross and shit, and I am really tired of this stupid couch, and I'm _cold_ , so can we just, I don't know. Nap."

Spencer huffed a laugh, without opening his eyes. "Don't mind about sharing with you, dipshit," he clarified, and he sounded like he had a really bad sore throat, "I care about the _moving_. Stay here. Easier."

"Not easier," Brendon shook his head resolutely. "Upstairs, I have pjs you can wear."

"Don't wanna," Spencer said, shaking his head.

"Oh my god," Brendon said, "it is like being sick with a _kid_ , you idiot. Get up and go upstairs and I will bring us water and Tylenol and tissues and the stupid dogs, since they hate it when people nap without them." Brendon knew the feeling.

"Nrgh," Spencer said, eloquently, and Brendon was left stumbling up off the couch with his grimy, horrid blanket wrapped all around him, and tripping over a mound of used tissues and tugging at Spencer's sleeve with his hand.

"Up," Brendon said, even though his head was swimming. " _Up_."

"Don't wanna," Spencer said, but he at least stood up when Brendon tugged on his sleeve again.

"Go upstairs," Brendon told him, "and get into bed, okay?" He shoved a box of tissues at Spencer's chest. "Take these, and these." He bundled Spencer up with the bottle of Tylenol and the pack of throat lozenges. "There are pjs, uh, in the drawer. Second one down. By the mirror."

Spencer looked blearily at him. "This is all your fault," he said again, blowing his nose. His nose was going red too. Brendon thought that maybe he and Spencer could be twin Rudolphs.

Brendon rolled his eyes, and nudged Spencer in the direction of the doorway. He felt really very sad and very tired of being sick. "We should be in a jacuzzi drinking _vodka_ ," he said to himself, miserably, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

He stumbled over the dogs and into the kitchen, refilling their water bowls and a glass for him and for Spencer. He grabbed a pack of cookies and by the time he got upstairs, the dogs inquisitively getting underfoot with every step he took, Spencer was just climbing into bed, wearing Brendon's pajamas.

"Your pajamas are stupid," Spencer complained, and Brendon rolled his eyes and passed Spencer his water.

"Your face is stupid," Brendon said, brandishing a handful of DVDs. "Take your pills and tell me what movie we should watch."

He dropped his germ-ridden blanket on the floor and switched the TV on; Penny Lane and Bogart took approximately two seconds to choose the bed rather than the blanket as their preferred movie-watching spot.

"Good dogs," Brendon said, because his dogs were the smartest. Beds were infinitely better than blankets. He should have figured that out sooner, too. "Have you picked yet?"

Spencer took another gulp of water, obviously swallowing the pills. "That one," he said, eloquently, pointing to Iron Man. Brendon ignored him and put in Star Trek.

"My house, my rules," Brendon said, succinctly, when Spencer looked like he might complain. He pushed Bogart out of the way so he could climb into bed, and then let Bogart curl up against his side. Brendon loved his dogs. He didn't mind Spencer much either, even if he was all stuffed up and breathing so loudly Brendon could barely hear the movie loading up.

"So," Spencer said, once Brendon had pressed play and turned the volume up against the combined nasal breathing of Spencer, Brendon and the two dogs. "This isn't weird."

"We are sick," Brendon said, "and it is better to be sick with other people than without."

"You just don't like being on your own," Spencer said, fiddling with the pillows so that he was propped up properly.

"That too," Brendon agreed. He leaned in and rested his cheek on Spencer's shoulder. He couldn't really smell anything right now, so he imagined what Spencer might smell like, instead. It was nice.

"It's probably a good thing I can't smell anything right now, right?" Spencer said.

"Showering is for people who aren't sick," Brendon told him, sitting up to cough.

Spencer rubbed his back. "I thought we were going to nap," he said, when Brendon's coughs had subsided.

"Napping is best when there's a movie on in the background," Brendon told him, miserably. His chest hurt and his head ached and his throat was really sore. He took a sip of water, but it didn't ease how raw his throat felt whenever he swallowed.

"Here," Spencer relented, and moved the dogs so that Brendon had more of the blankets. The air conditioning might be up high, but even when he switched it off he was still cold. He'd had enough of this stupid plague.

"Hate being sick," he grumbled.

"I know," Spencer said. He wrapped an arm around Brendon's shoulders, and Brendon leaned in and rubbed his cheek against Spencer's pajama shirt.

"Are you feeling any better?" Brendon asked, without sitting up. On the TV, Kirk's dad was about to take over control of the ship. Brendon normally liked this part, but right now he felt kind of shaky, and it wasn't entirely down to how sick he felt.

"No," Spencer said, equally miserably.

Brendon very carefully wrapped an arm around Spencer's chest, like a hug. It wasn't like Brendon was unused to giving hugs, or even unused to giving hugs to people who didn't really expect them, but for a while now he'd been... more careful about the touches he metered out to Spencer. He waited a moment before letting out a breath.

"You okay?" Spencer asked, without moving.

"Don't feel well," Brendon complained, but he didn't move either, one arm wrapped around Spencer.

"I know," Spencer said. "Me neither."

"We are germy and disgusting," Brendon said, satisfactorily. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

" _You_ are germy and disgusting," Spencer said, nudging Brendon with his foot. "I have consumption. Nicole Thingy wasn't germy and disgusting in Moulin Rouge."

"She was very beautiful," Brendon agreed. He closed his eyes again, and batted Penny Lane away when she tried to sit on Spencer's chest. "Spencer is sick," he said, in his best Puppy School voice. "We don't climb all over Spencer when he is sick."

Penny Lane sat on Brendon instead, which was a little uncomfortable but kind of worth it.

"You climb all over me," Spencer pointed out.

Brendon froze, and then tried to pull away, but Spencer kept his arm firmly clamped around Brendon's shoulders.

"I like it," Spencer said. "It's like having an extra blanket."

"You're only saying that because you have the plague," Brendon grumbled.

"Consumption," Spencer corrected, sleepily.

"Consumption," Brendon agreed, and tried to concentrate on the movie.

Spencer was asleep by the end of the opening titles, but Brendon tried to hold out, having slept away most of the morning. He made it until Spock showed up, at least, but his eyes kept closing. He'd just have to watch it again, later, and bug Spencer into watching it with him. He didn't think it would be _that_ difficult, and he was half way through formulating the perfect plan when he fell asleep, right there with Spencer's arm around his shoulders.

[end]


End file.
